


hive is where the vascular pump is

by badAquatic, orphan_account



Series: Trailerstuck [21]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Alien Planet, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Illustrated, Kinbaku (Japanese Rope Bondage), M/M, Original Character(s), Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:07:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Eridan Ampora, a teenaged street walker in New Jack City and you're faced with a decision: do you stay down the path you're already on or try something else to improve your darkening future? </p><p>Takes place after "ride nice dick" and during "come as you are".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. teenaged hustling

**== >Eridan: Deal with the annoying yellowblood**

Twelve o’ clock in the afternoon and you’re sitting on a bench at Blank Park. Your skirt is chafing you and sweat is ruining your make up. Business is slow at this hour and you could really use a bath and something to eat; maybe a swig of cherry-lime soda to wash the taste of genetic fluids out of your mouth. You’re just happy tomorrow is the last day of school. Soon you won’t have to worry about the hassle of dealing with the cops wondering why you’re not in school.  

You would have spent your lunch break relaxing but unfortunately, Sollux has free time.

\--twinArmageddons began trolling caligulasAquarium!—

 

TA: hey fii2hliip2 what2 the name for a year on old alterniia and how much tiime wa2 iit?

CA: oh my god sol

CA: does evveryfin you knoww about your owwn fuckin people fit into a thimble

CA: howw did you evven pass history

CA: did you wwave your mutant bulges in front of the teachers eyes and magic yourself a passin grade

TA: le22 biitchiing more answer2, eriidork.

CA: eridork

CA: no ones called me eridork since fuckin middle school

CA: i feel like submittin that insult to pitchfailures

TA: pitchfaiilure2?

CA: its a trollumblr blog for failed attempts of kismesistude

CA: like you constantly checkin up on me wwhile i wwas trying to get a nap in and tryin to get me to eat

TA: you were the one at my traiiler and refu2ed two get your fata22 up plu2 your 2tomach growliing wa2 a paiin iin the a22 to lii2ten to

CA: my glute is not fat

TA: liike hell iit ii2n’t.

TA: you’ve iinheriited the vanta22

CA: i have fuckin not

CA: im in shape unlike you mr stick thin computer nerd

TA: blow me ampora.

CA: you dont havve the cash

TA: wanna bet?

CA: im on the clock sol

TA: liike that matter2 two you. who are you giiviing half 2piiriited handjob2 two twoday?

CA: like youd havve the bulge to do wwhat i do every fuckin day

TA: you mii22ed la2t fiinal2 by the way.

CA: i know wwhen finals are sol

CA: i just dont care

CA: is that wwhy you asked me this question

CA: some dumbass roundabout wway of gettin me to talk about fuckin school

CA: fuck school

TA: 2hiit you’re iin a pii22y mood. do you want chocolate, a water bottle and miidol?

CA: midol

CA: wwhat in fuck is

CA: wwait

CA: eww

CA: thats that wweird human female thing

TA: wiith how much of an attentiion 2eekiing drama queen you are, ii would not be 2urpriised iif your body began miimiicking pm2 ju2t 2o you could have more attentiion focu2ed on you.

CA: fuckin gross sol

CA: id rather puke up hundreds of your ugly purple bee maggots than deal wwith that shit on a monthly basis

CA: fuck id rather puke up thousands of your maggotbabies than deal wwith that

CA: you and your fuckin insects and you stupid red blue purplewwhatevver scheme

TA: fuck you. my bee2 are way more awe2ome than you could ever hope two be.

TA: plus my bees are way too cla22y for a whore liike you. how many guy2 have you fucked iin the pa2t week alone?

CA: wwho says im countin

TA: congrat2 ampora. wiith that attiitude, you’ll 2oon achiieve godtiier iin whoriing liike damara. you can be the priince of bareback whiile damara ii2 the wiitch of 2triippiing. 

TA: you can’t hear iit but ii’m clapping for you. ii’m so proud of you. you cliimbed the mountaiin.

CA: is there some reason youre harassin me more than usual

TA: maiinly checkiing two 2ee iif you’ve been knocked up yet 2iince you don’t u2e fuckiing biirth control.

CA: not like i can afford it sol plus you nevver complained

CA: you and your mutant bulges

TA: yeah but you know me. ii’m clean. the re2t of the2e a22hole2 aren’t.

TA: do you even keep a 2chedule of when you’re 2upposed two go intwo heat? ju2t cau2e you can’t tell doe2n’t mean it i2n’t happeniing.

CA: oh my gods its like havin to deal wwith fuckin cronus

CA: yes i check my heat cycle patterns mother

 

You spy a swanky hovercar pulling up to the park. You stand up immediately, knowing that there’s only one person who drives something this nice in his neighborhood. You stand up and try to look as presentable as possible. You smooth down the wrinkles in your skirt.

 

CA: i gotta go sol

CA: dont you havve a retarded father to wwatch over or somefin

TA: that2 a low blow and you know iit.

CA: like it isnt fuckin true

 

\--caligulasAquarium has gone offline!—

 

You open up the car door and slide inside. You smile, “Hey there, sweet thing. I was wonderin’ when you’d show up…”

 

The troll smiles at you, “If you were expecting me, I apologize for my lateness then. I am usually the most punctual sort of man.”

You grin, “And don’t I know it…” 

 

* * *

 

You have mixed feelings towards this client. He’s much older, much bigger, and far more eloquent than any of your previous clients. Something tells you from the size and stature that he has purpleblood or blueblood somewhere in his genetic history. He wears very expensive, very fine clothes in white or shades of green. His hair is also white. Outside he wears a dark suit. Once indoors, that would all be removed. 

Your first (and still not disproven) suspicion is that he is affiliated with some sort of crime family, though you’re not sure which one.

You don’t know his real name as he prefers the alias Mr. Vanilla. He sounds foreign though, speaking with an accent that’s lyrical and soft—a voice that could gently narrate any fairytale and lull a child easily to sleep.

You don’t understand the nickname either, but you’ve learned it’s better not to ask questions. You’re lucky if you get a name at all with your regulars. 

You don’t quite understand his fetishes either. He seems to get the most enjoyment out of making you uncomfortable—tying you up in silks and rope so you can’t move without his aid. Sliding toys in and out of you as you try to read from books written in Old Alternian script. He has no interest in you touching him or even attempting kissing. He prefers observing; watching your unease mount as you stammer out another line of poetry in your native language, squirm as he shoves a thick toy further into your nook while you try to focus on making your next move along a chessboard, trace a long decorated bodkin down your back and along your gills as you struggle to remain still and avoid the sharp pricks of needle on skin.

You have no idea where Damara met this guy and you’re not sure you _want_ to know. You suspect that officially, he is a foreign pimp or some sort of businessman. His apartment is nice enough to support that theory, but the books he has of aged paintings and charcoal sketches of Heaven and Hell say otherwise. You can’t tell if he’s religious like Feferi, a Blood and Haze cultist like Damara, or just a scholar like Aranea.  

Today, the mood is different. He takes you to his lavish downtown apartment and strings you up. Mr. Vanilla knows how to tie knots with the most perfect intricacies. He knows how to make it wind just tight enough around the curves of your body; how to make sure the knots rub against your nook as you tussle with the bindings. You feel the ropes grow taut along your body with every breath you take.

The greatest challenge through all of this is simply being still as death; becoming boneless and limp as if you are accepting water’s simple buoyancy. You still feel a mild unease as you are suspended off the ground, held in place by white ropes. He always puts you in his study, which you suspect is built for this sort of thing. Everything about this room screams of sensuality and seduction, from the ornate carved furniture and fine paintings of the supernatural, to the heavy green velvet draperies. The only light in the room is provided by the soft glow of antique lights, which make it seem like it always dusk or dawn in the room. 

“How does it feel? You can speak now.” says Mr. Vanilla. 

You swallow. “I-it’s scary…being suspended like this…”

“The lack of control I’m sure.” regards Mr. Vanilla. You emit a low whine as you feel gloved fingers slide inside of your nook. “You’ve become a living swing set. I wonder if you could support another’s weight.”

The large grandfather clock in the room sounds off and Mr. Vanilla retreats his fingers out of your nook. He wipes the violet smear on a white handkerchief. He folds it up and returns to his pocket.

“Ah, yes. A protégé of mine has arrived and punctual as ever.” he looks at you with his vibrant green eyes, “I can tell by your body language you have a question. You can speak.”

“Do you…have that grandfather clock wired to your doorbell…?” you ask.

Mr. Vanilla smiles, “Of course. I am rather fond of clocks, so why not repurpose them for other uses? The more clocks, the merrier I say.”

You would have to be as blind as Terezi to _not_ notice the man’s fondness for clocks. There is a clock in every room accompanied by something green and even green clocks in all sorts of garish shades. Mr. Vanilla leaves the room and you remain suspended, hearing his voice tittering away down the hall as he greets a guest. It will be a while; the man does flush the sound of his own voice. You turn like a pendulum, moving side to side.

You spend your time looking at a lavish painting of the Eldritch Goddess of Unending Gaze. Her brilliant eyes pierce through her skull as she saunters through the Fifth Isle of Anger. She walks through the inky black rain that is ever-present on the island, avoiding the enraged souls trapped in the ever flowing stream. Accompanying her is one of her higher demons. (The painter, however, seems to have gotten the detail of the rain wrong in that the rain is brown not black...unless the paint is so old that the color has started to fade) 

 

You remember all the descriptions of The Isles of The Light-and-Rainy Hell from your time with Feferi when she’d read the Tome to you. You are not Orthodoxian, but you always enjoyed the sound of her voice as she speaks the old-fashioned way. Sometimes you like to imagine that she is not reading from a dusty old testament of your grand-ancestors several generations before you but it is the present day, and you are both glorious royalty.

Feferi’s words always burn into your mind. You relish over her cheery voice as she describes the realm of sinners and wrong-doers. She’s always been a girl solid in her convictions, although you may not agree with them. You admire her for them at least. 

The Eldritch Goddess’s domain is a boiling hot and bright realm of sandy chalk beaches and never-ending rain. There are nine islands in The Light-and-Rainy Hell and each island is reserved for a different vice a mortal has committed and each isle considerably hotter than the last.

The first island is part of Limbo and not truly the domain of the evil Eldritch One. Here are the virtuous pagans and the unbaptized. Next comes the Second Isle of Lust, reserved for carnal malefactors. Here, there is always a tempest blowing souls back and forth with wind and rain. The Third Isle of Gluttony is the prison of gluttons and here it always rained foul, icy water that add to the never-ending vile slush. This all leads up to the Ninth Isle of Treachery, which is ruled by hulking giants and its denizens are held in place with magma because of its immense heat. On the Ninth Isle of Treachery, it only rains the tears of those who have been wronged and upon hitting the ground, the tears would scream out their sorrows.

You look away from the picture. Even you don’t have the stomach to obsess with morbid curiosity over the matter of the Eldritch One. If you could move, you’d make the sign against evil across your chest. There isn’t much else to look at in the study though, for every wall bears some painted depiction of the Eldritch Goddess or someone in her family or Court. There is the Eldritch Goddess attempting to drag the Sylph into her horroterror darkness. There is the Eldritch Goddess seated on her infamous living throne, made of the most sinful mortals stitched together with magical thread. Sitting beside her is the rest of the Court of Hell—the Prince of Pitch and Lies and the Princess of Emptiness and Hate, who both control the demons and orchestrate the various tortures of the wicked.

You’re relieved when you see Mr. Vanilla return to the study, now accompanied by a seatroll who can’t be more than a year older than you and dresses far more dapper. He has a top-hat with a golden band across it and a black waistcoat accompanied by mauve trimmings. There is a scar under his left eye.

He looks like a tool.

“Marvelous!” proclaims the seatroll once he gets a good look at you. You can hear the delicate accent in his voice and you struggle to place it: Bojangles or Southern Bojangles? The seatroll moves closer to you and touches his cold hand to your thigh. He tugs at a rope and you feel a knot rub against the base of your bulge. You pant. “What intricate knot work. You truly are a marvel, sir. What material is this?”

“A combination of hemp and jute.” Mr. Vanilla responds.

“And the _knots._ ” The seatroll tugs again and you pant louder. You feel your bulge twitch, trying to find something to rub against. His fingers are cold not only from his chilled blood but the ring on his index finger, “Marlingspike lanyard knots; how lovely. I favor the Portuguese bowline though.” The seatroll looks to Mr. Vanilla, “This is _shibari_ right?”

“That is what it is commonly called by foreigners. The proper term is _kinbaku-bi._ ” Mr. Vanilla responds, “In my travels abroad, I learned the art from a legendary _kinbakushi_ who resides in the Otomo Province of Neo Japan _._ She taught me the fine art of manipulating thread, from strings to rope. It was one of the many stepping stones I took in order to become the planet’s finest puppeteer.” The older troll smiles, “You truly are the descendant of Gamblignants, Nektan. Not only five minutes observing my newest ornamental display in the study and you’re already observing the knotwork.”

The seatroll, Nektan, chuckles. “I’ve been learning knotwork and ships since I was hatched, Mr. D. It’s the duty of the one who is to own the property Happy Harbors sits on to know everything he can about ships. Now this little delight…” His bony hand nudges your bulge, which eagerly curls around his finger. “Look at the color of this bulge; is he really a _violetblood_?”

Mr. Vanilla nods. “Two generations in and still the perfect shade. I’ve seen and tasted his blood. Despite his status, it’s _very_ pure.”

You wince, remembering the times you couldn’t avoid being pricked by Mr. Vanilla’s bodkins and being unable to say a word. He always paid double if you could remember the “rules”: you are only to speak when you were given direct permission, not allowed to make eye contact, don’t forget the safe word (which you did one time and regretted it greatly). The only time you are allowed to forget your place is when intercourse is taking place (or what Mr. Vanilla considered to be intercourse).  

Nektan caresses your bulge, still smiling. “Rare indeed.” He grins, “It’s like in the novels; you have a fallen house or lineage and the shame is thrust upon its descendants. It’s tragic.”

You inhale sharply when you feel a ringed finger explore your nook. His rings make you shiver and _oh gods_ you never had a ringed finger in there. You always tell your other clients to take off their rings or it isn’t going to happen but _ohhh fuck_ why did you refuse?

“Tragic, inevitable, and romantic all in one package.” Nektan says.

Mr. Vanilla smiles, “You always seem to have a great romance and enjoyment of the lower class if you ask me.”

Nektan chuckles. “The working-class have far more charm if you ask me; they experience a different tier of reality than we do.” His smile widens, “Where do you live? You must be from New Jack City.”

You glare at him. You can tell from his eyes that his blood is a paler shade of violet. Back on the homeworld, he would be minor nobility compared to you. You try to muster you pride and not sound bitter as you say, “ _Yes_ …”

“Aniline End?”

“The _oh_ Ninth Ward…”

“Ah, the trailer park. How unfortunate.”

“What’s wrong with— _fuck!_ ”

Metal scrapes against your nook and now you remember _why_ you never let ringed fingers inside of you. Nektan sees you shirk and withdraws his finger. You feel something cold drip out of you. It doesn’t feel like a deep cut (and in your line of work you have to quickly judge any injuries before they possibly get worse) but it’s definitely a scrape. You take a deep breath. It’s not your first time cut there. Don’t panic. Keep calm. It stings only a little and you’re not bleeding very much. You’ve been hurt worse several times before.

Nektan steps back and his eyes widen. “So,” he mutters, “it really _is_ violet.”

“Look at that self-control.” muses Mr. Vanilla, “No flying into a blind rage or anything. He must have some lowblood in him to stay so docile and focused when hurt.”

You don’t say anything. You don’t move. The bleeding has stopped. The cut just stings now and you’re fighting to ignore it. Mr. Vanilla walks over to you and touches where your horn first begins to bend.

“Or maybe I’ve just _trained_ you well?”

You bite the inside of your mouth and try not to cry. You think of the lump sum of cash you’re going to get at the end of the night and give him a tired smile. He can be as sophisticated all he wants, but you still think he’s the worst sort of pervert—throwing his money around and manipulating poverty-stricken teenagers in front of other rich teenagers.

And he’s the sort of pervert you need to latch onto like a lamprey and drain for all he’s worth.  

 

Mr. Vanilla and his new associate spend their time together talking about the economy, foreign policy, and in-country politics of the UTC. Mr. Vanilla detaches you from the ceiling but not from your bindings. He has you straddle his lap, still unable to move. For all his odd kinks, Mr. Vanilla is not as aggressive as your other clientele. He doesn’t paw at you or demand that you take your clothes off right away and once he draws blood he stops immediately. Nektan sits across from him in an antique chair. You stare the furniture carving and recognize the leering face of demons looking at you. You shut your eyes.  

Mr. Vanilla offers the young seatroll a silver plate filled with licorice scotty dog candies but Nektan refuses.

“It’s always a pleasure to see you, Nektan. I would be the worst sort of host if I didn’t offer you my wares.” says Mr. Vanilla.

“Thank you but I don’t partake in opiates. It ruins the mind and the body you know.” Nektan insists.

“No pressure. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea.” Mr. Vanilla says. “How goes the family business, Nektan? Been maintaining any battleships or selling yachts?”

Nektan chuckles, “My sister manages the yacht and luxury boating side of the family business. I haggled down the Canz military for a decommissioned battleship all the way from Shongolia. The scrap we’ll get from it will be worth its weight in gold.” He folds his hands, “What brings you to New Jack though? That’s all the way across the Greater Atlantic Ocean.”

“I’ve always been endeared to New Jack City. I own property here from my days working at the small television station before I got my big break and relocated to Young Britain.”

They talk more business—stocks, foreign exchange rates, immigration policies, and so on. You’ve learned to become so unfocused that time starts to stretch and dilute. It’s the only way you can tolerate dealing with your most annoying or troublesome clientele. You've discovered that there’s only two sorts of people in this line of work: the bored who just want a quick fuck no questions asked at a good price and the curious who always _wanted_ to try something a little more on the kinky side and didn’t have the courage to do with someone at home.  

During this time, you think about your grandfather. Thanks to Mr. Vanilla’s money, you’ve been able to give him a steady supply of medication, but it’s not enough. You know he needs to see a doctor but that’s even worse. Seeing a regular doctor is fine with vouchers but because of his age and hemotype he’ll need to see a specialist, which is still a huge chunk of boons you’ll need. Your grandfather isn’t getting any younger though. You’d like to care for him forever, but you can’t do everything. You still have to earn a living for the both of you. 

You wonder if you should put some money toward getting him resident care, but there’s no way your grandfather would tolerate that. Not to mention he can’t move so they’d recommend him for a nursing home. A nursing home would be best you think, that way you wouldn’t have to worry about him and you could visit him. He could live his days in comfort and when he does finally…die…he’ll at least have dignity.    

But you’d want him to be at a nice nursing home. That’s going to cost a lot of money…

You ponder these thoughts until Mr. Vanilla finally unties you. He doesn’t cut the strings but unravel them with expert care. Nektan remains in your company. The young man may not like Mr. Vanilla’s drugged candy but he enjoys his alcohol. By now he’s giggling and tipsy in that way where everyone thinks what they say is incredibly fascinating and they’re considerably more attractive than how they are. Not that you consider Nektan Whelan attractive. You think he’s a spoiled little shit who waves his money around and has no reguard for class.  He’s a pain with terribly old fashioned way of dressing and not adorable in any way, especially when he’s tipsy and his top hat is sitting crookedly on his head.

“Would you like to see him in costume?” is all Mr. Vanilla has to say to have the seatroll is at rapt attention.

You go to one of the many bedrooms in the large apartment, escorted by Mr. Vanilla with a drunken Nektan on your arm. You get dressed up in clothes finer than what you’ve ever owned—purple lacey headdress and pale pink blouse with frills. Black ruffled skirt decorated in a nautical motif with fish and swirling octopi. Bloomers with dark purple bows and sheer over-knee socks. Crisp soft fabric, puffed sleeves, and all very cute with tiered skirt trimmed with green and pink moons. You feel like a doll version of yourself.

All the fanfare seems pointless though, as you know you’re just getting dressed up to take it all off. You’ve done enough stripteases to find it incredibly boring. You just want it to be over…though you do blush a little when Nektan asks you how old you are and says that, “Despite living in poverty, you are still a smooth skinned delight to _feel_ , my dear.”

He’s too drunk to even consider for a minute, that Mr. Vanilla stands in the corner of the elegant room watching. You know the oblong device in his hand is an advanced camera, with high definition footage you would assume.

You lose track of the time with Nektan on you, but it’s considerably briefer than with your other clientele. Unlike your drunken clients, he doesn’t have a case of whiskey bulge nor does he vomit in the process. It’s not until afterwards Nektan begins to feel the effect of overdrinking.

By then it’s nine at night and darkness has settled over the city, coloring its smog blue grey. You have returned to the study, now dressed in your street clothes. It’s too warm to wear a trench coat without attracting suspicion so you go with a hoodie. Pulling your hoodie up makes it less likely you’re going to get mugged. You’ve learned on the streets that its appearance that stands between you and a knife in-between the gill-ribs.

Mr. Vanilla sits at his desk and carefully counts out your payment for the evening. With this money, you won’t have to do a long Friday, Saturday, and Sunday shift. You could actually _rest_ ; maybe buy yourself a scarf that isn’t unraveling. You look at the items on Mr. Vanilla’s desk. Aside from the metal cashbox, there are tall leather volumes concerning occult-focused poems and esoteric mythologies. You can read some of the titles—The Equinox of the Noble Circle, Rite of Nrub’yiglith, The Unholy Books of Oglogoth, The Fluthlu Scriptures, and The Church of Gl’bgolyb are some of the ones you can pick out.

All of the dubious sounding tomes are covered in dry gray leather. You remember reading that on Old Alternia, books only the nobility could read were bound in leather made from the tanned skin of culled lowbloods. But those sorts of books would have long been destroyed by the Starfall or in a state of serious decay if they survived that. Yet the book leather is pristine…

You try not to dwell on it. You see stacks of paper typed in Modern Alternian with coffee rings on them. There’s bits of colorful string tied in different intricate patterns (as if the man was making beaded bracelets in his spare time like a kit at summer camp), and then your eyes go to the camera you have no doubt Mr. Vanilla used.

The older troll glances at you. “You have a question about the nature of my photography?”

 

“Maybe. You seem to be heavy into a lot of stuff.” The photograph is probably the least creepy thing with the marionettes being _far_ worse on your scale of ‘weird shit’. 

Mr. Vanilla turns his swivel-chair towards you, “Successful people ask better questions, my young seadwelling escort, and as a result they receive better answers. Assumptions only provide half-truths unless for the most sharpened of minds.”

“Even if I ask,” you say, “you might not even bother me with the truth.”

Mr. Vanilla gives a carefree shrug. “The truth is a less burdensome thing; after all, if you tell the truth, you don’t have to remember anything later.” He spreads his fingers as he looks at you, “I am an open book to be sifted through for greater knowledge, my young seadweller.”

As open as the man may be, he’s still very powerful and you’re nothing more than a street troll looking to make some cash. He could tell you state secrets, shoot you in the back as you leave, and dump your body in the swamps.

You decide on a sample question. Something that won’t land you in too much trouble. “Why the gloves?”

“Ah, yes.” Mr. Vanilla looks on his white gloves and flexes his fingers. “The gloves are penchant of mine from my days as a lowly puppeteer. The appearance of my skin makes some ignorant folk quite uneasy, so I have taken to hiding it when I can.”

“Your skin?” For one thing, Mr. Vanilla lacks the bags you have under your eyes or the malnourished gaunt look of someone who’s been eating ramen noodles for five weeks straight. “There’s nothing wrong with your face.”

“Not what you can see, my dear.” answers Mr. Vanilla, “I have publicly covered my face and throat in a very durable bodypaint since a young age, but the hands are a more difficult matter. Fingers flex more; work more than the neck does, especially for a puppeteer. Body paint is still paint and it flakes with due time and stress, thus the gloves.” 

“So what’s wrong with your skin?”

“I have a physical mutation. Nothing that is contagious or harms me; it only concerns the way I look but it puts others at ease. You must understand, my dear, that in this day and age people are all worrisome about genetic breakdown and mutations. Humans have changed very much since their Old Earth days that they fear one day they shall stop being humans entirely due to the ingestion of soporific herbs and other mutagens, or that their species shall die out when exposed to carcinogenics. In my rank of society, two things determine how your personal social interactions go: one is money, which is important and a given, the second of which is mutated genetics.”

“Mutated genetics?” you echo.

Mr. Vanilla nods. “It’s quite important to some old money families that their offspring remain as ‘unmutated’, or unchanged, as possible; as close to the original homeworld genetics as possible, no matter how improbable that may be to this new environment. More a matter of impractical species pride than anything else that may have unfortunate consequences along the way for said offspring.”

“I don’t think I understand…” you mutter, trying to recall your piecemeal understanding of biology. You were never much for science and more focused on history.       

Mr. Vanilla rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “Consider the cat; a basic human homeworld creature originally with two eyes.”

“Okay.”

"Consider the two eyed Old Earth cat to the four eyed New Earth cat. Cats are actually an invasive species on this planet. In order to survive here, they bred with the four eyed New Earth felines, thus producing the commonplace species we have today. Although it may be strange, it has adapted to this environment, thus all other breeds have died out. The New Earth cat is a mutation that has overtaken the regular population of two eyed cats, which are now extinct.” 

“So,” you say after his diatribe, “humans are afraid of being replaced by mutated humans?”

“That is the fear of the upper class at least but it’s already begun among the lower class. With no access to proper health care, mutations abound and there’s nothing to truly be done of it. That is why they keep the mutated out. We trolls are very much the same way about the widening gap in our hemotypes. The coldblooded hate the warmblooded even more now because the warmblooded are more adaptable to New Earth’s environment than they are. This continent especially—the ‘Mainland’ by New Jack City slang or ‘The United Towns of Canz’ as its proper name—has a dropping coldblood population. A seadweller is truly a rare find. Most coldblood sicken or die before reproducing, or the offspring are also unable to adapt. Evolution is making up for that though.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, for one observation, you are violetblood and yet small for one and I doubt that will change. Your offspring will most likely be just as short if not shorter. A smaller body is easier to maintain on an alien planet you’re not adapted to.”

You feel your stomach give an odd squirm when you hear him mention offspring. You haven’t talked to Feferi in a while and you haven’t even thought about…what happened. What you did. You don’t like to think about it. It makes you far too uncomfortable. You haven’t even told her that you’re streetwalking in the hopes of providing for your grandfather but also for her and… _your_ …offspring.

You _really_ don’t like to think about it. About being a…a _father._  

You nearly jump two feet in the air when you hear the cash box shut close. You look at the stack of bills on the desk.

“Pardon me. I do love to prattle on about social issues at hand, as I do with my colleagues, but I have a motto of completing my business before I indulge in too much pleasure. It builds bad habits to behavior in such a manner.” says Mr. Vanilla.  

“Y-yeah.” You nod and take the money, sectioning it off for your two wallets. Your decoy is in your hoodie and your real one is stashed inside a hidden pocket inside your skirt.  

You learned from Damara to have decoy money in your wallet pocket and stashed away money tied to your waist. That way, if someone mugs you all they get is ten dollars at the most (which would be appropriate change for someone your age) while your real cash is hidden away. Sometimes you can’t avoid a bad night or dealing with _real_ crazies. Better to sacrifice ten dollars than sink two grand because some chucklefuck got lucky.

Chucklefucks are the reasons you carry knives now. The NJPD are filled with too many speciesist assholes to let you carry a gun, which is what you _really_ need when you walk these streets.

You take the money and finally bite the bullet. “You’re blackmailing him aren’t you?”

Mr. Vanilla tilts his head. “Whelan you mean?”

“Why else would you take the photos?” you ask, “His father owns Happy Habors, which means he’s rolling the boons. I doubt Dear Ol’ Dad would be happy if he found out his son was sleeping with underaged street whores.”

Mr. Vanilla chuckles and stands. You finish divvying out the money and look up at the large, older troll as he leads you to the door.

“The thing about these people, my young seatroll,” says he, “is that they could care less about what their offspring do behind closed doors once it remains there; behind closed doors. When doing business with people, it’s often good to have a little…insurance; just a precautionary to certain bad and annoying habits that could crop up in the future.”

You nod. You’re not stupid. Beyond that wall of words, those pictures could do plenty of damage if they were leaked to the press. The New Jack Post loves anything involving the upper class and decadent sex acts.

“No worries, young lad,” Mr. Vanilla says as he leads you to the door, “I shall keep your anonymity in case of any misbehavior.”

“Y-yeah…thanks.” You mutter, knowing that any determined New Jack Post reporter would do everything in their power to hunt you down. You don’t have any interest in stopping him though. You got your thousands. What he does with the pictures isn't your business.    

You walk out of the apartment. Mr. Vanilla doesn’t shoot you in the back. You’re relieved. You walk to the nearby bus station and get a late dinner at the McDonalds inside the terminal. You listen to the hum of people walking around the station. In a sprawling city like this, there’s _always_ someone at this terminal and all the stores are twenty four hours because of it. You buy chocolate and coffee at the convenience store. The old clerk’s gotten familiar with you and always gives you a near toothless smile you’re not sure how you feel about.

You wait with all the other whores for your ride on the hard benches. You think about Feferi and wonder if her seizures will be carried onto the next generation. You wonder if her seizures are a mutation or just caused by where you live. You wonder if you could ever leave this place and realize that as a teenaged prostitute, you already fit right into New Jack City’s harsh urban landscape, like a toy model in a mold.  

You arrive back at the trailer park around ten. You walk through the lively neighborhood, not caring who recognizes you. Summer is here and soon everyone is going to be walking around. The children are free from school and so are the adults to a point; no longer having to worry about PTA meetings and school functions like bake sales and plays until September.

Offspring. Your thoughts go back to Feferi. You ignore it. 

You arrive on Two Boot Drive and go to your trailer. You peek in on your grandfather, who is still breathing from what you can tell. You shower and change out of your street clothes into pajamas. You then go to check on your grandfather; you never approach him in your street walker clothes. His eyesight may be bad but he might still freak out.

You stroke the older troll’s face with a warm sponge. Your grandfather’s skin is clammy. “How are you feeling tonight?”

He doesn’t respond. He’s awake and aware but disinterested in whatever you have to say. He’s been like this since last week. Usually he’s so lively during the summer and at night, but this is the first time he’s been completely stuck inside. You give him his medication with some water and, with time, it’s gotten easier giving him his pill. You don’t have to fight him with him to get him to swallow it down.

Once your grandfather is taken care of, you go to your room and lay in your recuperacoon, enjoying the warm slime. You consider messaging Feferi but know she’s busy or asleep this late at night.

You drift off to sleep instead. 

 


	2. mercy

You wake up at ten in morning, eyelids feeling dried out and legs aching from all the walking you do on a daily basis. You get up and make breakfast. You check the answering machine which has twenty two neglected messages. The first seventeen are a variety of telemarketers asking you if you want to purchase credit cards, if you’re unhappy with your TV provider, and so on. The next four are from the school, saying that Eridan Ampora has been absentee in his classes and that he’ll be dropped entirely from junior year if he doesn’t show up or explain to the school board what is going on. You don’t care. You stopped caring about school a long time ago.  

The last one is from Cronus, your mother.

The message is brief. Your mother asks where you’ve been and if you’re doing alright. He wants you to come by the trailer since he’s got something important to tell you. 

You honestly don’t know if you’re doing ‘alright’ by any means of the word. You have no interest in seeing him, or your father. They might be your parents, but Dualscar raised you and always took care of you. Now you’re taking care of him.

You delete all the messages without a second thought.

You lounge around the house a bit and stream documentaries on the history of the Threshsecutioners on your husktop. You disconnected the cable a long time ago since it was getting pricey. You’re watching dramatic reenacts of secretive coups when your palmhusk vibrates. You look at the message and groan.

 

\--twinArmageddons[TA] began trolling caligulasAquarium[CA]!—

TA: where are you?

CA: wwhat the fuck are you talkin about sol

TA: eridan today2 the last day of exam2 and you haven’t been two 2chool 2iince karkat punched you out.

TA: are you tryiing two flunk juniior year?

CA: sol i honestly dont care anymore

CA: i got more important things goin on than school okay

TA: eriidan, 2top beiing a complete dumba22. what are you goiing to two do wiithout your diiploma? you can’t be a whore forever.

CA: shut up sol

CA: i knoww wwhat im doin

TA: no you fuckiing don’t, eriidan.

TA: you may thiink you do but obviiou2ly, you fuckiing don’t. how long do you thiink you can keep 2elliing your2elf before the poliice catch you or you get kniifed?

TA: what then?

TA: you need a diiploma two get hiired anywhere iin thii2 ciity.

CA: shut up sol

CA: im serious

TA: what are you goiing two do when dual2car diie2?

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] has left the conversation!—

TA: oh for fuck’2 2ake eriidan.

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] has blocked twinArmageddons[TA]!--

 

You are gripping the palmhusk. You’re a seadweller and you’re capable of immense strength when angry. You take a deep breath and slowly unhinge your fingers from the palmhusk. You don’t care what Sollux says. Dualscar is going to be fine. You know it. He’s just a little sick. He’s a tough old troll. His body may not be unfailing like the Grand Highblood’s but he’s still nobility. He should live for thousands of years without worry.

You need to talk to someone. You lay down on the couch and send a message to your moirail.

 

\--caligulasAquarium [CA] began trolling cuttlefishCullar[CC]!--  

CA: uh fef

CA: you there

CC: -ERIDAN!

CC: W)(ere )(ave you B-E-EN?! 3>8(

CC: I’ve been worried SICK about you! I )(aven’t seen you in sch)(ool either!

CA: ivve been busy

CC: -Eridan, you’re going to flunk junior year if you don’t take your exams!

CC: Did you at least call t)(e sc)(ool about being out?

CA: i didnt

CA: i just

CA: it doesnt matter anymore

CC: -ERIDAN!

CA: fef

CA: i knoww youre tryin to help me but its too late

CA: i already been dropped out so it doesnt matter anymore

CC: W)(at?!

CC: -Eridan you )(ave to go to sc)(ool! You can’t not )(ave a diploma!

CA: i dont have to do a thing fef

CA: theres plenty of people wwho dont havve degrees and do just fine

CC: No t)(ey don’t!

CA: fef i knoww wwhat im doin okay

CA: i can take care of myself

CA: ivve been taking care of myself for a long time noww

CA: so im fine

CA: im just gonna keep wworkin until grandpas healthy again and i can put him in a nursing home somewwhere so i dont havve to wworry about him

CC: Get money doing w)(at exactly?

CC: No one is going to )(ire a dropout –Eridan, unless its for terrible pay.

CA: i havve a job okay

CA: i dont wwanna talk about it

CC: -Eridan, I know you don’t want to )(ear t)(is but Dualscar is very old and very sick.

CC: No matter w)(at you do )(e’s at t)(e end of )(is lifespan. It may be )(is time to…join all t)(e ot)(er souls at t)(e gate of t)(e Life-Deat)( Mac)(ine.

CA: thats bullshit fef and you knoww it

CA: dualscars a vvioletblood his lifespan should be in the twwo thousands at least

CC: Yea)( on Old Alternia under normal circumstances, -Eridan. 38/

CC: T)(is isn’t the )(omeworld. Older trolls like Dualscar can’t adapt to t)(is environment, not to mention t)(at t)(e food )(ere is different. T)(e nobility of Alternian )(ad everyt)(ing w)(ile t)(e warmbloods )(ad little to not)(ing. )(e’s not living in t)(e lap of luxury on t)(is planet.

CA: it doesnt matter

CA: grandpas stronger than he looks and hell do fine once his infection clears up

CC: -Eridan, )(ave you even taken )(im to a doctor? Like, recently? I mean )(e’s been sick for well over a year now and )(e’s not getting better.

CA: i dont wwanna talk about this

CC: Dualscar got sick last winter rig)(t? At t)(e beginning of t)(e year.

CA: it wwas just a cough and he felt tired sometimes but thats it

 

Actually, it was a lot worse than that. Your grandfather just had a small cough that he got medication for (the same medication you’re using now). He took it and felt good enough to go off of it for a while. Then the cough came back with a vengeance but your grandfather refused to take his medication. At least now you can force him to take him, since he’s not strong enough to fight back. You had just assumed that it was a really stubborn virus or cold that wouldn’t immediately go away…

 

CC: -Eridan, Dualscar is old. )(is immune system is not w)(at it used to be. We don’t even know )(ow old )(e or our grandparents are or were since Mindfang and the Grand )(ig)(blood are the only ones still alive.

CC: Dualscar is already s)(owing symp)(t)(oms of w)(at t)(e ot)(er grandparents started to go t)(roug)( before t)(ey finally…passed away.  

CA: fuck that no

CA: hes my grandfather

CC: -Eridan, it’s okay…

CA: hes orphaner fuckin dualscar

CC: -Eridan. It’s okay…

CA: he wwas the one that used to kill seahorrors and lusii on alternian and is gonna still be around wwhen evveryone else is dead

CA: hes not gonna just

CA: just shrivvel up and die

CA: he cant

CA: he cant leavve me alone like karkats grandfather did

CC: -Eridan, its alrig)(t.

CC: Deat)( is a natural part of life! 38)

CC: Life isn’t about fearing deat)( or fig)(ting against it. We )(ave to accept it and learn )(ow to deal wit)( it. After all, Time’s Clockworks is not an evil or malicious god just as culling is not evil w)(en used properly.

CC: So most likely your grandfat)(er will die very soon but t)(at’s okay because you’ll always )(ave your memories of t)(e good times you )(ad toget)(er! And )(e won’t be sick or be in any pain anymore and maybe w)(en you die you two can be toget)(er again in t)(e Dream Bubbles wit)( t)(e Glass Goddess!  

CC: So s)(oos)( now, okay? -Everyt)(ing is going to be alrig)(t! 38)

CC: Okay, -Eridan?

CC: -Eridan?

\--caligulasAquarium has gone offline!—

CC: 38(

 

Well that did the _exact fucking opposite_ of comforting you. In fact, you’re pretty fucking sure that Feferi’s boundless cheer was a worse kick to the gut that Sollux’s cold tone.

You go to your bedroom and look at your grandfather’s bottle of pills. You used his old prescription to get it since he had three more refills of it. You called the Walgreens pharmacy and walked in, paid for it in cash, and left with no questions asked.

You pick up the bottle.

They’re called Naztex. Large, round, yellow pills. Your grandfather’s supposed to take them three times a day with food. May cause drowsiness. Should not operate heavy machinery while taking them. There’s also a long list of side-effects and what else they could do, including when to call your doctor about which one. 

You stare at the bottle a full five minutes before your grip cracks the bottle. Yellow pills spill on the floor. You don’t bother to pick them up.

What’s the point?

What’s the fucking point?

You’re not a fucking idiot. If someone as faith-blind as Feferi can see the obvious with your grandfather, why bother denying it anymore? You know your grandfather’s very sick. You hear his coughing through your bedroom wall. You see the blood slowly draining from his face and his thin body. He’s almost skeletal now.

He’s wasting away and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it because you’re not a doctor. You’re not a miracle worker.

And you’re not even sure if you believe in the gods anymore.

Despite everything, you know that your grandfather might be days—even hours—away from death and there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it, so why bother? Why bother thinking these pills that even a horse would face difficulty swallowing would change any of that?  

You throw the broken plastic bottle against the wall. The sound it makes isn’t even noticeable. You look at the fallen pills and clench your fists.

So much for having some fucking _hope._

Your claws dig into your palm and you look at it, seeing the violet-bruised half-moon marks. There’s violetblood in you and still not a godsdamned thing to be done. You might as well be a fucking peasant.

Suddenly, you can’t stay in the trailer. You’re too worked up. You put on your shoes and head out the door.

Its Friday mid-afternoon and people are out enjoying the New Jack City summer. The swimming pools are going to be crowded with children and inattentive parents. You don’t know where to go. You’re not dressed in your streetwalker clothes so you don’t bother going to the park. There’s too many of your ‘customers’ hanging around there, especially around the snack stand and restrooms.

You decide to go see the only person you can talk to and that’s Damara. After all, Damara knows your dirty little secrets and indulges in them, taking you under her wing and teaching you every little trick she’s learned. Plus, you need to give the rustblood her cut of the money.

When you arrive at the trailer, Damara is wearing a shirt that’s two sizes too big for her and nothing else. A cigarette hangs out of her mouth.

“Eyes puffy like a blowfish,” Damara says in Old Alternian, “What sorrows do you have on your chest this day?”

“You want your cut or not, rustbitch?” you grunt back in your native tongue.

Damara clicks her tongue and lets you in her trailer. You sit inside her decorated room and think back to Mr. Vanilla’s own collection of esoteric books and paintings. You hand Damara over her two hundred fifty boons. She lights up another cigarette while you drink soda. You’ve stopped by here enough times to know what Damara keeps in her fridge. You’ve never had an interest in alcohol thanks to your father’s…indulgences. 

“Has the old fish finally kicked the bucket?” Damara asks.

You glower at her. “I’d rather not talk about it, especially with a lowblood.”

Damara lounges on her bed next to you and counts her money. She blows out a plume of grey smoke and chuckles, “A lowblood is always more willing to take the hand of Death than a highblood. We know death well and call Him our moirail. He keeps us calm and reassures us that we are all equal under His law. The word of Death is greater than any highblood and His sword cuts through the vascular pump of the mightiest Subjuggulator.”

You look at your can of Diet Jack Cola. “…how did your mother die?”

Damara tilts her head. “I culled her, of course.”

“Why?”

Damara smirks. “My mother was peasantblood and peasants are far more brutal than you cozy little highbloods could ever be. The life of a peasant is harshness and she reared me as such when my father would have us swaddled and spoiled on this alien planet. Culling was expected of me from my birth, being hemokin to her.”

“So you didn’t like your father?”

Damara pauses and her lips pressed into a thin, neutral line. “I loved my father with all my life. What happened to him was disastrous on many levels.”

“What do you mean?”

Damara’s eyes narrow. “You know very little of how things were at the manor and Dualscar is too feeble or unwilling to loan information. Perhaps if my father had not perished, Dualscar would not be such a bitter old man. They were close, close like a highblood and lowblood could be in their paleness for each other. They needed each other.”

“My grandfather isn’t feeble.”

Damara smirks, “Can he even walk?”  

“My grandfather was always a strong man.” you growl.

“Oh yes. Orphaner Dualscar; a philanderer of the Gamblignants who slayed lusii and seahorrors far and wide at the will of his Empress. A man of the strongest convictions”—Damara leans in close to you—“and of _deepest_ cynicism. He had no hope for the future, knowing the destruction the Rift Carbunkle could wreak when upset. He considered his occupation a ticking time bomb, knowing the seahorror would one day end their civilization for her reach is long and we all hear her song.  

“My father was the opposite though. Filled with the boundless hope for the future because of the Signless’s words, he brought Dualscar out of his acerbic cynicism long enough to make sure they all survived the destruction of the old world. When my father was brutally murdered, so was Dualscar’s hope of escaping ever-looming doom.”

Her words are harsh but there is something vulnerable in her dark red eyes. She smells like incense smoke. You’re not sure if its hormones or not, but you feel like kissing her or hugging her. Some gesture of compassion or sympathy.

You are frozen though, because the last time you moved on your instincts, you knocked up Feferi and are still regretting that.

You break off eye contact and admit in a trembling whisper, “I don’t want him to die…I want him to stay with me forever.”

“What would happen if Dualscar’s health improved? You think he would approve of you now? Or of this?” She gives a sweeping gesture around the decorated room. “This is a den of sin and sexual sanctity; a pledge toward our god and our doing. Once we act in the ways of the gods, they watch us closer from the shadows. They meddle in our affairs with deft hands and smoke and mirrors.”

You swallow. “I never did a rite to any single god. I never swore an oath or wrote my name in any of their books.”

“Sometimes it need not be so formal as that. You walk the streets. You give me money, which goes toward the shrines of Blood and Haze and Time’s Clockworks and any others I think need tribute. If it were not for Blood and Haze, there’d be no love. No quadrants, no sex, and nothing but stagnation and languor. There’d be no great tales of love found and lost and the sweet experience of a first quadrant-confirming kiss…”

Damara sighs, eyelids lowering. “They always watch from the shadows, whether we are aware or not.”

You move off the bed and walk to the door. “I should go. Have…a lot of thinking to do.”

“Take the vows, Eridan.”

You pause at the door and look at the rustblood. “…what?”

“What shall you do now that you are no longer in school? You cannot whore for all your life. Eventually you must move on to something else. So, why not take the vows for Blood and Haze? Work your ways through the ranks and become a high priest.”

“A…a high priest” You shake your head, “I’m not a mutantblood.”

“There’s nothing saying you _have_ to be a mutantblood to be devout worshipper of Blood and Haze.”

“If I was a high priest, I’d be managing all the shrines in New Jack City. It’d be a lot…”

Damara laughs. “Managing a shrine is no different from maintaining a business and that is what prostitution is: the world’s oldest form of self-employment. After all, you’ve learned to maintain your money, what to spend it on, how to save, and when to manage your expenses. Don’t you wish to make something of yourself? Something of importance? You’re already a baptized Alternian Spiritualist.”

“I don’t know.” you say, because for the first time in your life, you’ll have responsibility that can’t just be shrugged off or passed onto someone else. For once you feel real weight on your shoulders that’s beyond worrying about your grandfather and you’re not sure if you can handle it.

Damara lies back on the bed, smiling. “Consider it, Ampora. The windows of opportunity close when you are no longer young.”

You nod and leave the trailer, feeling more lost and confused. You’ve wandered from the distress of your grandfather’s eventual passing and into another matter: with him out of your life, what will you do? You were always by Dualscar’s side from when you hatched until now. He always took you on fishing trips up north. He taught you the names of all 26 constellations and even told you how to figure out your own zodiac symbol.

Maanen Beta. The zodiac of the fish cut in half. The symbol of futility against destiny. Maanen Betas are most likely to be misunderstood by everyone else and it takes time for them for them to adjust to being around others. They’re unlucky in quadrants but maybe, just maybe, they’ll see what’s wrong and find their own happiness and maturity.

You’re not sure how you feel about that; or anything else.

You walk through the trailer park. You don’t have your palmhusk on you, even though you know Sollux or Feferi (or maybe both) are most likely freaking out that you haven’t respond to any of their pestering. You look at the black coats walking through the neighborhood. There’s always more of them in the summertime. No one knows where they come from but you consider them strange and a bad omen. They’re always watching and observing everything that goes on; writing down notes, peeking in windows, and going in and out of homes with eggs in special containers late at night.

You always make sure to avoid them, even though you have a feeling they know everything they want about you.

You hitch a bus to East New Jack. It’s closer to the woods and suburbs like Variance Beach and Twelve Acres. There are houses here with rooms that could fit two of your trailers inside of them and swimming pools larger than you could ever dream.

You can only dream of ever living here. You don’t look at the homes or the perfectly cared for green lawns or the small boutique shops aligned into the historic district. You walk past the rich hipsters and art school students, not making eye contact with them. You’re not the only tourist they’ve seen. After all, East New Jack’s shopping center is an artistic destination along with its colleges and Bramble’s Market.

You walk down Mattos Street and approach the large shrine surrounded by trees. You remember coming here last summer to be baptized as an Alternian Spiritualist by its high priest. It was a hot summer day and you were one of the many looking to be baptized. Your grandfather never had much interest in religion (plus he was feeling tired that day) so you went alone.

In the summertime, the shrine is decorated with purple paper lanterns and harlequins in anticipation of upcoming Mirth Gras. You grew up believing it wasn’t officially summer until Mirth Gras came to the streets and summer wasn’t over until St. Cappy’s Day had passed. You walk inside of the large shrine and look around. Unlike Orthodoxian churches, Alternian Spirtualists forego the church-commissioned stained glass windows and hard wooden pews in favor of statues, woven tapestries, and paintings donated by its members. The lighting is always provided by paper lanterns or natural light when present. There are pillows strewn around in certain areas and the high priest always stands in the center during sermons and prayers.

You sit on one of the pillows gathered near a statue of the God of Blood and Haze. The Alternian form of the deity is depicted here, as a mutantblood with holy sigils scarred into his flesh. He holds a silken robe over where his divine nook would be, offering a little bit of modesty (which is rather out of character for the god of sex, lust, and quadrants in your opinion).

You’re not even sure where you would get started being a priest. You wouldn’t be the only one your age going into the priesthood. There are plenty of students at your school that go into the priesthood; either because they want some new purpose in life or they wanted the ease of laying around all day getting laid since that was the common misconception about the Blood and Haze priesthood.

You know that’s incorrect though. Like any religious duty, it boils down to hard work and dedication. You’re not even sure if you have it in you to go through that. You’d probably have to leave home too, at least temporarily and go on long pilgrimages to different locations. There would definitely be more financial security, but you’re still on the fence. You’re not sure if you could stand to leave your grandfather alone either.   

But you…? Eridan Ampora: a high priest of Blood and Haze? You’d be a rarity, that’s for sure. You could probably count the seatrolls in the Blood and Haze priesthood on your barely webbed hand.  

“Praying or sleeping?” chuckles a voice next to you. 

You look to your right and see Nektan Whelan sitting on a pillow next to you. You jolt away. “ _Holy_ …!”

 

Nektan tilts his head. “You didn’t hear me coming? Honestly, I’d imagine a trailer park kid would have better awareness of their surroundings.”

You glance around, and seeing that the shrine is mostly empty except for the occasional acolyte sweeping up dust or checking the offering bowls, ask in a low whisper, “What are you _doing_ here? How did you even…”

Nektan smirks, “Recognize you outside of your special ‘working gear’? Come off it, already. You think you’re _that_ unrecognizable out of your skirts? Seatrolls like us are rare in New Jack City. Check it, friend.” He holds up his hand to your face and you see there’s no webbing there. He then tug away his jacket and shows the miniscule gills along his neck.

Your eyes widen. “Your gills they’re…”

“Deformed. Go ahead and say it; I’ve heard it enough times all my life to not be troubled by it, chum. Even if I have offspring with another seatroll, most likely their gills will be vestigial. After all, what use is a seatroll when you can only swim in pools because the bay water here is too toxic?”

You remember the one time Feferi and you went to the public beach. She cut her foot on a rusty can and there were stray animals just walking around. Afterwards you found playing in the sprinkler a lot more fun and a lot less disgusting.

Feferi.

Feferi who is probably worried sick about you. You push the thought away and narrow your eyes. “What are you doing here following me? If it’s…service…you want, I’m not in the mood.”

“ _What_? Oh no, friend! You misunderstand!”

You stand up grumbling. “I’m not your friend. I barely know you.”

Nektan stand and grabs your hand. “I consider anyone I associate with a good friend. I may live in New Jack but I act one hundred percent Bojangles.”

You look at his cold hand on yours and feel the blood rise to your cheeks. “W-what are you—”

“And as your good friend, I wish only to figure out what we’re doing in a similar area since this is so far from the Ninth Ward.”

You look away, hoping he can’t see the blush spreading along your cheeks. “Do you…live here?”

Nektan chuckles, “Well, of course I do! Most people in my economic class either live on the East Side of New Jack or further toward the edge. Plus, my college is here.”

“College? Uh, you’re in…”

“College, yes! I took an accelerated program so I went straightaway into college once everything cleared. Only the finest of education for the members of the Whelan family. My sister’s back home in Bojangles, I have a brother going to the Summersend Archipelago digging up ancient buried treasures, and a younger sibling off learning etiquette and how to maintain a business in Young Britain.”

“Young Britain? All the way there?”

Nektan shrugs. “Like I said: only the finest of education.” He smiles, “So what are you doing here? Offering up something for the God of Blood and Haze?” He arches an eyebrow, “In your line of work, I’m sure you need all the blessings you can receive.”

“I could easily ask you’re the same.” you grunt, folding your arms.

Nektan smiles. “There’s no need to be so uneasy around me. I’m pretty sure we slept together.”

“Pretty sure?”

Nektan walks to the door. “That’s how I recall it at least, then again my memory’s always foggy once I get a few drinks in me. Come on. I’ll buy you a drink. It’s the least I can do since I didn’t pay you for before. Let me buy you a beer.”

“Its four in the afternoon.” you say.

“Alright, I’ll drink for the both of us.” you say.

You roll your eyes and follow him out the shrine. No one in their right mind turns down a free meal. You follow Nektan and you discover that he enjoys hearing the sound of his own voice as much as Mr. Vanilla does but also seems to like having your input and conversation skills. You’ve learned to sit and listen to people after two of your clients paid you less for sex and more for company. You almost felt bad taking their money, knowing they were just lonely older men who wanted to feel appreciated.

Nektan takes you to a bar across from Bramble’s Market called Mama Iguana’s, which is (unsurprisingly) owned and operated by an iguana and her children. You sit at a booth and watch Nektan put away a beer and reach for another one. You sit across from him and eat your ant larva quesadillas with a chaser of grilled corn and seasoned rice. Lately, your appetite’s been doubling. It makes it harder to live off of ramen so you’re really savoring this meal.  

“So,” you say, “you’re a spiritual man?”

“A spiritual man?” Nektan asks, sipping his second beer.

“Why else would you be at the shrine?”

Nektan smiles and puts down the bottle. “No. Never.” The seatroll leans back in the chair, “I just take in the sights and move along my way. My family has a habit of religious tourism. We see what they have to offer us and then move onto something else; we never stay long enough to become more than guests.”

“So why follow me?”

Nekan smiles and touches your hand, “Why not?”

You look at his hand and frown, withdrawing it. “No. I mean, being a client is one thing but being…something… _else_ is another.”

“Why?”

“It…it makes things complicated.” you mutter, “Very complicated. More complicated than I’m willing to get into right now.”

“Then give me the CliffNotes.”

“The CliffNotes version? Well, for one thing I’m not exactly what you call market fresh.”

Nektan shrugs, “Is anyone?”

“You _literally_ just met me yesterday under…questionable circumstances. Not to mention I have all my clients and I’m not interested in some sort of Troll Pretty Woman scenario where you take me under your wing and sweep me off my feet.”

Nektan laughs, “I do not have the intention, nor the funds, to _do_ such a thing! Listen.” The seatroll leans in and says in a lowered voice, “You are a worker of the night, shall we say. I am a young troll full of future promise but I can’t be distracted or bothered by my fertility cycle, others trying to dig their claws into me, or the pestering of a serious relationship. These college women are a pain if you ask me and I am simply looking for something to satisfy my needs. It’s simple: I pay you a certain lump sum every month, you make yourself available whenever I need you—whether it be privately or at a social function where I need some eye candy.”

You blink. “You mean…like a _serious_ client?”

Nektan nods.

You look down. “Mr. Vanilla is my…serious client too, or is probably going to be. I’ll have to juggle his time too…”

“Alright, let’s do this.” Nektan gets out a napkin and a pen, quickly scribbling. “I’m going to write you a sum of what you’re going to get _that_ little number there monthly from me.”

He passes the napkin toward you. You sigh and unfold the paper. You stare at the number and look over at Nektan.

“You have got to be kidding me.” you mutter.

“If I was kidding, I wouldn’t have bothered writing down something.” Nektan chuckles.

You smile. With money like this, you can get your grandfather to see a doctor and keep him in a nice suburban nursing home.

“Let’s do business.” you say without a second thought.

Nektan smiles. “Wonderful to hear.”

* * *

At dusk, Nektan drops you off back at the trailer park. Riding in Nektan’s hovercar is enjoyable, since its a new model. Nektan informed you it was a sweet sixteen birthday gift from his father who was back in Bojangles at the time and couldn’t make it. You say goodbye to your client, letting him kiss on the cheek. With the money he’s going to be giving you, you no longer care what he does. 

You enter your trailer through the back, since its easier to avoid Feferi this way.

The air in your trailer stinks of blood and sopor.

“Grandpa?”

You don’t hear a response. You run to your grandfather’s room.

“ _Grandpa_?”

You try to open the door but it won’t budge easily. There’s something stuck behind it.

_“Grandpa! Grandpa, can you hear me?”_

No response. Your panic mode sets in. You slam into the door repeatedly and on your third try, it gives way. The smell of blood is thick in the room. You look over and see some of the boxes had fallen in front of the door. You see your grandfather lying on the ground, having spilled out of his recuperacoon. The side of it is cracked open and there is sopor soaking into the ground. Your grandfather lies in a pool of sopor, stained with violet blood.

“Oh gods… _oh_ _gods_!” You dash over to your grandfather’s side and pick him up, grunting. “Please be alive…please be alive. _Oh gods, please be alive…”_

Your grandfather is trembling and unconscious but, oh thank the gods above and below, he’s still breathing. You drag him to the bathroom, huffing and puffing as you drag him toward the tub. You lug the larger ancient seatroll to the bathtub and drop him in. You turn on the water, making sure it’s warm. While the water is pouring into the tub, you sit your grandfather up.

“Come on. Come on, breathe, grandpa. In. Out. Come on.”  

Your heart stops thundering in your chest when you hear Dualscar cough. He spits up a bit more blood but finally starts breathing easily again. You leave him in the tub and run to your bedroom. You scour the room for the pills you tossed away earlier. You scramble to pick up the pills and place them on the end table near your recuperacoon. You run back to the bathroom with a single pill.

“Grandpa, here. Take this.” you say, sitting your grandfather up. “I know you don’t have food right now just swallow it. Please. Come on.”

His lips are cracked. You manage to get the pill past his lips and rub his throat to get him to swallow them down. Your grandfather breathes slowly. His eyes slowly open. You stay close to your grandfather, using the first aid kit in the bathroom. You bend up the cuts and scrapes along his arms and hands.

You look at his splintered and brittle claws. “Did you try to climb out your recuperacoon?” you ask in Old Alternian.

Your grandfather doesn’t respond.                  

You sigh and bandage his bleeding fingertips. “Ancestor, you have to take it easy. You can’t just drag yourself around like this. Now, I have to go clean up all that sopor and repair your recuperacoon.”

You stand up and walk to the door, “I’ll go see if we have any clean towels. You’ll have to sleep on the couch if I can’t fix the recuperacoon tonight. Should get you some clothes too…I think we still have a robe or something that you can—”

“…Eridan…”

You stop at the bathroom door and look over at your grandfather. Your grandfather is looking at you. His eyes are sunken in and his teeth are flecked with violetblood.

You smile, “You’re talking again! The medication must be working.”

“Eridan...” he wheezes.

You walk over to your grandfather and stroke his hand. “Maybe you are getting strong again because of a medication?” You grin, “Soon, we can get you a nurse and maybe into some physical therapy where you can—”

“…cull me…”

You stare at your grandfather. He stares back at you.

“…what?” you say in a small whisper.

“You heard me…you fool.” your grandfather croaks in Old Alternian, “Do your…your duty as my descendant. I’m old. I’m weak. No longer fit to…to contribute to the slurry. Cull me. Cull me before the drones come…”

You shake your head. “This isn’t Alternia, grandpa. Come on. You’re just tired. Let’s get you out of this tub and into some dry clothes.”

You kneel down help him sit up.

He grabs you by the throat. You choke and grasp his wrist. “Grandpa. Grandpa, let me go now. Come on. Grandpa. _Grandpa!_ ”

Dualscar’s teeth are clenched. Violet blood is coming out his gums. “I have lived far beyond everything. I survived…survived the death of my home. My empire. My empress. My wealth, my power, my moirail… _everything has gone wrong for me…_ all I want now is peace. No more. No more of this…this insulting agony!”

“No no please no grandpa…” You whimper, “Please, I can’t…I can’t…”

“Let me die. Let me die with the dignity befitting my hemocaste!”

You shake your head. “No…no! I can’t!”

“Cull me…” You grandfather growls, “CULL ME!”

You don’t struggle in his grip for long. He’s not even at a tenth of his strength. You stumble away from him and fall on the ground, your head nearly hitting the toilet.

“No!” You scramble to a stand, running to the door, “I...I can’t!”

“CULL ME!” shrieks Dualscar, “CULL ME CULL ME CULL ME CULL ME CULL ME—”

Your heart is pounding against your rib cage. You run out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind you. You’re shaking like you’ve just come out of a war zone. You still hear your grandfather shrieking on the other side of the door. You stagger to the living room and see your palmhusk sitting on the couch. You grab it and start shakily typing.  

 

\--caligulasAquarium has stopped blocking twinArmageddons!—

\--caligulasAquarium has started trolling twinArmageddons!—

 

CA: sol sol

CA: oh gods sol

TA: eriidan? what the fuck ii2 iit? ii’ve been trying to contact you but you blocked me!

CA: oh gods i

CA: my grandfather just

CA: and i

TA: hold on. 2low the fuck down. what2 wrong?

CA: i cant

CA: i

TA: eriidan come the fuck on. what i2 it?

CA: i think im havin a fuckin panic attack

CA: this is great

CA: reely fuckin great im such a cowwardly little shit sol i

CA: oh gods

TA: what happened? diid dual2car fiinally kiick the bucket?

CA: no no no he he did just oh gods sol

CA: oh gods im shakin so badly

TA: oh for fuck2 2ake…

TA: can you walk?

CA: ye yeah

CA: yeah i can

TA: then come on over.

CA: wwhat

TA: come on eriidork. ju2t walk over. no ones goiing two care iif you do. everyone2 at vrii2ka’2 party.

TA: ju2t 2tep out.

CA: oh

CA: okay sol

CA: sure

\--caligulasAquarium ceased trolling twinArmageddons!—

 

Your grandfather is still screaming. You have to cover your ears as you run out of your trailer.

The insects are out tonight in a fierce stubborn swarm. Crickets chirp loudly and gnats buzz around your face. You ignore the sound of summer and make your way to the Captor-Pyrope trailer. Sollux is standing in front of the door, wearing shorts a sleeveless white shirt to combat the heat.

The yellowblood looks at you and knots his eyebrows. “What in the hell happened to you?” When you don’t respond he walks over to you and grabs your arm, “Did a client rough you up or something? Did you catch something?”

You shake your head.

“ _What_ _then_?” Sollux asks, exasperated.

“Grandpa…grandpa asked me to…to _cull him…_ ” you whimper.

“Oh. Shit.” Sollux sighs and takes your hand, dragging you toward the trailer, “Come on in, Eridan. It’s going to be a long night.”

Sollux is right. It is a long night. The trailer is a lot more organized than yours. You sit inside his living room and watch Mituna play Condescension of Duty, incoherently screaming at noobs. You sit on the couch and don’t say anything. You try not to think of your grandfather begging for death while being completely immobilized.

You should have done it. You know you should have done it. Its your duty. He raised you like a traditional Alternian. You should have known this day would come. On Alternia, descendants culled their predecessors all the time. Your grandfather culled his predecessor. His grandfather before him and so on. That was how things were on the homeworld.

Except this isn’t Alternia; and you’re too afraid of losing your grandfather for good or having to carry that weight around of having culled him. Instead of doing what was expected of you, you ran like a kit and came here to hide away from your grandfather.

“Here.”

Sollux plops down onto the couch next to you. Mituna says goodbye to his co-players, turns off the HS3, walks over to the couch, and sits next to his son. You look at Mituna and Sollux and realize that they don’t even remotely look like a father-son pair at first glance. They look and act more like brothers.

Sollux has a water pipe in hand. He pulls the coffee table close to him (pushing aside scattered energy drinks and Doritos from Mituna’s gaming marathons) and methodically sets it up. He fills the bong with cold water and packs the bowl.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” you say.  

Sollux shrugs. “Eh. No point in bragging about smoking weed when it’s been legal for centuries. No one gives a shit if you do it or not. Plus it helps Dad mellow out on his more high strung days. Meds are too expensive so pot is just as good in this situation. For now at least.”

“Surprised you can even afford pot.”

Sollux smirks and lights the bong, handing it off to Mituna. “You can afford it if you know the right place and right guy.”

You watch Mituna and Sollux both toke up. You never did drugs, even though pot is the most softcore drug available. You just never had an interest in it or cigarettes, the latter being considerably more expensive.

Eventually, Sollux passes the bong to you. You shirk away at first, “I…I don’t…”

“You need to relax, Eridan…seriously…” Sollux breathes out a wisp of smoke, “You keep working yourself up like this and you’ll have a heart attack…”

“Are you sure I won’t have a bad reaction to it?” you mutter, taking the bong.

“Just take a small hit, fishlips. Don’t swallow it down like you’re that fucking caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland…” Sollux chuckles.

You get instructed on your first bong hit and first taste of marijuana. It mainly involves a lot of coughing on your part and learning how to properly inhale smoke. At first you don’t think it’s doing anything but ten minutes in and you feel like every bone and every joint in your body has become soft moldable sludge.

You sag against the couch and Sollux smirks. “See…? You look more relaxed than you ever have…fishlips…”

“Feels that way…feels like I can see every molecule on my arm…” You wipe your eyes, “Can’t…can’t believe my grandfather asked me to do that…to kill him…I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it, Sol…”

Mituna is taking another hit. He exhales smoke and says, “Older trolls do that usually when they feel the end is nigh…” He looks down, “…my Mom did…”

Your eyes widen. “Holy shit…is he…?”

Sollux smirks, “Yup…totally _coherent_ when high…at least for a little while…” The yellowblood leans against you. “Give Kankri a shotgun and he’ll do you the favor…or Cronus…”

You wince. “It’s still…he won’t be around anymore…how am I supposed to deal with that? I can’t live on my own yet…”

“Ugh! _Eridan_ …!” Sollux groans and lazily hits you in the arm.

“Ow…” you mutter.

“Eridan…you can _too_ …” Sollux says, “…you’ve been doing it for the past year since Dualscar’s been sick. And you’ve been supporting him. You can do plenty on your own without him…y’know…time to move on…he’s old and his time’s winding down…”

“…still gonna miss ‘em…”

Sollux presses his mouth against yours and with your now-sluggish senses it takes you a minute to realize he’s kissing you; sliding his forked tongue in your mouth. You grab him and pull him down on top of you, laying on the couch.

“Hey…hey… _no_!” Mituna grumbles and tugs Sollux away from you. “ _Not_ on the couch! That’s why you have a _room!_ ”

“Yeah…yeah…” Sollux mutters and stands up.  

“Whatever.” Mituna grumbles.

You’ve already been to Sollux’s room on your first job. This time is different. There’s no money involved. Just a hasty rush to his daybed and increasingly needy kisses between the two of you. He tackles you onto the mattress. You both make quick work of your clothes; you undressing him and him striving to undress you—as if you’re both in a race to see who can get naked first.

“You smell fucking good.” Sollux pants into your ear.

You spread your legs wider. “Must be the weed or you being a horny fuck…”

Sollux smirks. “Says the hooker to the yellowblood. I oughta put both of my bulges in your nook. You could probably handle them just fine…”

You chuckle, “Why not give it a try then?”

“Might hurt a bit…probably feel like I’m popping your cherry all over again…” Sollux purrs as his bulges push against your nook.

“I’m not made out of tissue paper, you lisping fuckface…” you grumble and bite his bottom lip.

“Then here we go, you fishy asshole…”

Sollux inches his bulge inside of your nook and fuck, it is a lot like your first time again. You’ve taken larger bulges but the feeling of having _two_ working inside of you doesn’t compare to the thickness of a purpleblood. You can feel your nook straining against the size. It’s better than dealing with a client though. You don’t have to grin and tolerate the discomfort. You can insult the yellowblood; telling him to move less, move more, move up, move down, and finally—go faster.

When he finishes, you are snuggled close to the yellowblood with a pool of yellow genetic fluids leaking out of you, mingling with your own shade of violet.

“Think you gave my eggsack a work out…” you mutter.

“You still smell good though…” Sollux pauses and tugs at your arm, “Eridan. Eridan, when’s your heat cycle?”

“I’m fine…I tracked it…” you yawn. “It won’t happen for awhile…”

“Are you sure or are you just saying that to get me off your back?”

You yawn and mutter something else. You’re exhausted from today and need your rest. You drift off to sleep before Sollux can get any more answers out of you. 


	3. home

**== >Be the exasperated yellowblood **

You are Sollux Captor and you sigh, now coming off of your high and in a sluggish post-coital state of relaxation next to your would-be-kismesis. Eridan clings to you in an exhausted sleep. He still smells lightly of pheromones and you just put double the amount of genetic fluids inside of him. You don’t have to be a genius to realize that he’s most likely knocked up…with your offspring. Ugh. You’re not sure how you feel about that. You wonder if your parents have any morning after pills you can borrow.

You grab your AR glasses off the table next to you and put them on. The glasses only add to reality, showing you a virtual keyboard and a screen only you can see. You turn them on and immediately log into Trollichum. You begin typing on your virtual keyboard.

 

\--twinArmageddons began trolling cuttlefishCuller!—

TA: eriidan’2 fiine. he ju2t had a paniic attack becau2e dual2car wanted two die and a2ked him to do it.

CC: O)( NOOOO! 38(

CC: Poor baby. Is )(e okay?

TA: yeah he fliipped out for a biit but he’2 okay now. 2leepiing liike a rock.

CC: T)(ank you, Sollux. I know it’s a lot asking me you to )(elp )(im after w)(at )(appened between t)(e t)(ree of us but t)(ank you. You’ve always been a great person.

TA: you’ve alway2 been a good per2on two ff. you alway2 wiill be.

CC: T)(ank you Sollux but it was still immoral of me of w)(at I did and unfair to you. 38(

TA: ff.

TA: 2top beatiing your2elf up about iit okay?

TA: you’re the one that got the 2hort end of the 2tiick. ii freaked out about iit cau2e ii thought you and eriidan were flu2hiing behiind my back but you diidn’t.

TA: ii thiink iits pretty obviiou2 neiither of you thought any of thii2 out beforehand. 2o yeah ii a22umed the wrong thiing whiich make2 me an a22 i gue22.

CC: You’re not a jerk, Sollux. You’re a great guy. 38)

CC: I wis)( wit)( all my )(eart that t)(ey were yours. 38(

TA: ii do two, ff.

CC: I s)(ould probably come over. Knowing –Eridan )(e’ll probably be freaking out still come morning.

TA: alriight. iit’ll be good to 2ee you agaiin ff.

\--twinArmageddons ceased trolling cuttlefishCuller!—

 

Next to you, you hear Eridan snicker.

“…you still flush her…” he teases, half awake.

“How do you even know who I was talking to?” you ask.

“You’re blushing.” Eridan smirks, “Who _else_ could you possibly be talking to, pissblood?”

You realize there is heat along your face from talking to Feferi after so long. You give a very pitch gesture to Eridan and lightly hit the seatroll in the arm. Eridan groans but doesn’t have the motivation to fight you back. You don’t have the motivation to continue hitting him. You remove the AR glasses and lay next to him. The seatroll is purring with content. You yawn and lay next to him. Fuck it. You’ll worry about his heat cycle in the morning.

 


End file.
